


Hidden in the Fury

by TheLittlestBoho



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sterek, Non-Human Stiles, there's some violence too, who also happens to be bamf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:16:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/568992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLittlestBoho/pseuds/TheLittlestBoho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles has always been the pack human, and he's worn that title with pride. He's their go-to-guy for research and plans, and everyone takes that at face value.</p><p>Only problem is, Stiles isn't quite human.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What you are

Don’t let anyone know what you are

Stiles lives with a constant beating sound. Thump-thump-thump. He’s been hearing it, feeling it, since he was five years old and learned to control what he was. It’s just always been there, moving through him, and his whole life revolves in time with that sound, that feeling. When he was a kid he would walk down the street, skipping over the lines _(step on a crack and you’ll break your mothers back)_ and counting out each beat.

One beat, two beat, three beat, four.

He hardly notices it by the time he’s sixteen. It’s just part of him, like the ADHD – which he secretly thinks is connected to the thrumming – and his intense love of all things Batman. There was a brief period, right after his mom died, when it had nearly taken over his attention again but his dad had stopped that.

“She wouldn’t want that, Stiles,” he’d said, looking exhausted and heartbroken and Stiles had just pressed his face against his dad’s chest.

“She’d want us to keep living like normal, right?” he’d asked, hugging his dad tight when he answered yes, a distinct hitch in his breath. “I don’t know how to do that, dad. We can’t do that anymore, not without mom.”

“I know,” he’d said, hugging his son right back. “But we do the best we can.”

And they do. They adjust and Stiles learns how to cook (because his dad could burn water, although he’s gotten better). His dad makes sure the bills get paid, and that Stiles has the support he needs, while Stiles deals with groceries and they take turns with laundry and unloading the dishwasher. And the beating sound slides back into the background again, just like it has since he was a kid, just like it had with his mom. He teaches himself everything he needs to know about what he is, because there’s no one else to show him. His dad might know, might love him anyways, but he doesn’t understand. Not completely.

But then werewolves happen. And his best friend becomes a werewolf and it’s still mostly okay, and Stiles finds a lot of information in the books that have been passed down for generations. He reads, and he teaches himself, and then he teaches Scott. The thrumming noises stay back and Stiles keeps counting and sometimes he almost forgets what he is. Almost.

The thrumming gets incredibly loud the night in the sheriff’s office. It drowns everything else, and it’s everywhere. He can feel it in the back of his throat, crawling down his arms, in his veins. Every sense is working in time with the beating and Matt is saying something about Jackson being his fury and Stiles wants to scream.

‘You have no idea what you’re talking about’ and ‘You’re a lunatic’ and ‘If you hurt my dad I will bring the horrors of every hell imaginable down on you.’

It’s only his mother’s voice in the back of his head, telling him to keep it a secret that stops him from lashing out. Still, he’s amazed no one else hears the beat, faster and louder and harder than it’s been in his entire life. No one does though, and no one sees the reality, and then Matt is dead and his dad is alive and the thrumming sinks back into the background, although it’s not as quiet as it was before.

It stays like that for a year. For a year the pack is safe enough that Stiles can go back to ignoring it, to almost forgetting the truth. He doesn’t tell his dad about werewolves, just tells him he has it under control. Things are tense, but they get better.

He’s relaxing in the field behind the Hale house, cuddled up with Allison and Lydia as they watch the wolves train. It’s chilly out, and they’ve got a blanket covering them, and Lydia is telling stories about the constellations that are visible. Everything feels warm and homey and Stiles thinks they’ve finally figured it out, they’ve finally become a real pack, and he loves it.

They come out of seemingly nowhere, and Stiles doesn’t know what they are, can’t remember reading about them in any of his research. There’s about ten of them, and they look human, but the way they’re moving is textbook Supernatural. The wolves are trying to keep the fight away from the humans, and Lydia and Allison both have crossbows out because Lydia had insisted on learning. Stiles is just standing there, trying to play lookout.

The thrumming starts just below his ribcage, and then Isaac gets swatted into a tree and it takes over his torso. Erica and Boyd each take bad hits and it spreads to his extremities. The scent of Jackson’s blood hits him at the same moment the thrumming is strong enough to make it feel like his heart is going to explode. Scott is next, and then Allison, and every inch of Stiles, every single atom that makes up his body, are beating in time with the thump-thump-thump he’s felt his entire life. Derek and Lydia, the two people in his life he’s fallen in love with, are next and the drumming sound tastes like iron and cinnamon and chili peppers.

The pack are all still fighting, getting back up and getting knocked down, and no one seems to notice that Stiles hasn’t moved. His family, his family, is being hurt around him and Stiles knows in a way that’s instinctive that this isn’t going their way. He can smell the death coming the way he had when his mom was sick, when the mechanic died in front of him.

Never let them know what you are, unless it’s the only thing you can do, unless you trust them.

He screams and one of the things comes for him and Stiles doesn’t smirk, but the beating sound picks up. One step, two, and the thing is looking ready for an easy meal and Derek is yelling at him to get out of there but Stiles just waits until the thing is on him. A raven, or a crow, flies over head, cawing and Stiles lets the creature grab him.

There are a lot of pictures in his mom’s books. Some involve large leathery wings and talons, while others are feathers and snakes. The celtic ones tend to be a woman with dark hair, nothing to differentiate her from any other human. Always female though, always seen as women.

His mom used to say he was special, that it was the human in him that set him apart.

Stiles never liked being different, but it’s serving a purpose now because he can tell no one expected him to be a threat. They’re second guessing that now though, still fighting with the pack even as they see the corpse of Stiles’ would-be attacker on the ground.

The thrumming leads him to his right and he sees one of the things moving in on Erica, can feel that someone is about to die. He screams again, wonders if it sounds like a crows caw to the others, before he has the man-creature in his hands. On some level he wonders if he’ll be traumatised when this is over and he realizes he’s eviscerated someone.

On some level he knows he won’t, not as much as a normal human would be.

The next scream rings like a wolf’s cry in his head, and he wonders if he looks as human as the woman-creature whose throat he’s just ripped out. A horses’ whinny is the next sound he hears, this time snapping two necks one after the other. He impales a man-creature on a branch while he hears a cobras hiss and vaguely wonders if his eyes are dripping blood like they had in the books.

His mother had black hair that she said came from Nyx, shockingly pale blue eyes from Göndul, Morrigan’s white skin. He never saw her fight though, never saw her as she was. Stiles has never met another half-breed either, isn’t sure if he looks as soft and childlike as usual. He wonders how frightening he must look, blood dripping off his hands, wonders how he’ll face his dad tomorrow.

“What are you?” One of the things asks, and Stiles focuses back in on him, vaguely noticing that there are only three left. He licks his lips, feels the thrumming like an electric wire in every part of his body. He lets his tongue dart out again, sniffs slightly, tries to tell if the death is coming from the corpses already strewn in the field, or if it’s still to come.

“What do I look like?” he asks back, tries not to look directly at the pack, avoids seeing the looks of disgust or horror or fear on their faces. He wonders if he looks as frightening as the wolves do. “The pictures are never consistent.”

One of the creatures shifts, makes an aborted noise, and then darts towards him with a knife out. Stiles has her arm twisted, knife pointed towards her throat, and wonders if his eyes have changed color, if they’re black because he sort of always assumed they’d be black. Or gold.

“Haven’t you even been told patience is a virtue? Though, I guess it’s fair if you ignored that, cause a lot of what people tell you is bullshit. Like, in Game of Thrones, when Syrio teaches her to say no to the God of Death? That’s a total lie, cause if you’ve been chosen, you’re going to die,” he says, but the creature is dead and he blinks. “I didn’t mean to do that. At least not consciously.”

Two left, and he turns to look at them. “There is no God of Death. So what are you?”

“Well, you’re right in that there isn’t any one specific God of Death…” he says with a shrug, flexes his hands and wonders how many people his mom killed, if his dad talked to her about it. “I’m…well the jury is kind of still out on that one. I’m a hybrid, of sorts.”

They’re both shifting, stepping forwards and backwards, eyeing the pack and Stiles in concern. One of the girls, Allison he thinks, whimpers behind him and Stiles narrows his eyes, feels the thrumming intensify.

“I don’t think I’m supposed to kill you two. Not yet, at least,” he says, feels the truth of that statement and tilts his head to the side. “I’m still new at this whole Valkyrie thing though, and I’m really pissed off right now, so I could be wrong. Or I might just change my mind.”

One of the ravens caws from overhead and Stiles blinks, flexes his fingers again. “Either way, I’d recommend running.”


	2. Sated

Stiles didn’t think that anyone had ever run away from him in fear before. It was sort of cool in a slightly twisted, I’d rather not analyse this, kind of way. But the creatures (the two still left) had turned and taken off at his words. Stiles sort of wanted to yell something about ‘don’t come back’ or ‘they are protected’ but figured that would kind of destroy his credibility. If anything could kill an epic post-massacre speech, it was recycled pop culture quotes.

Which, massacre, unpleasant thought.

Turning slightly he gave his hands a shake, wrinkling his nose when blood splattered off. His clothes weren’t exactly clean though, so after a moment he gave in and just wiped his hands on his pants. Gross. How did his friends deal with this all the time? Their dry-cleaning bills must be through the roofs.

“What are you?” Erica asked, making Stiles whip around to face her. He took in the pack, Scott’s eyes wide in confusion and Derek’s brow drawn in an angry frown. They were all huddled together, claws out and arrows notched. Every inch of them screamed defensive, and Stiles felt himself tense in turn, immediately looking over his shoulder. He’d known them leaving after one little threat had been too easy, even if he couldn’t sense any imminent death.

“No,” Derek barked, the growl evident in his voice, making Stiles look at them again. One of Derek’s arms was out, holding Scott back, which made no sense. The baddies hadn’t been visible at the woods edge, and the rest were dead -

Oh.

Oh right.

Stiles swallowed thickly, mildly surprised by exactly how much it hurt to realize his pack was afraid of him. He was the threat. It made sense but…yeah. It hurt. A lot. It was a stomach knotting, chest aching, kind of pain and Stiles tried to focus on not letting his anxiety rise. Out of the whole pack, only Scott looked like he wanted to fight Derek, or at least like he was considering it. Everyone else just looked…threatened.

He paused, taking a breath and dropping his head forward as he focused on the drumming. It had lessened since the fight, but was still more of a continuous thrum than its usual beat. Honestly, Stiles wasn’t sure what that meant.

“Yeah, uhm maybe Derek’s right this time. I’m not sure touching me is a great idea right now. I mean, it might be fine, but like I said, I’m new to this, so I’m not sure.”

“What,” Derek growled out, red eyes narrowed on him, “are you?”

_Don’t let them know what you are_

His mom’s voice was still loud in his head and he shifted, tugged his sleeves over his hands for something to do, stopped when he felt something questionable and sticky. “Ugh…” Seriously. Why couldn’t fighting Supernatural monsters involve way less bodily fluids. How was he supposed to focus on a serious conversation when something he didn’t want to think about was slowly congealing on his hands.

“Dude, your eyes,” Scott said, voice a mix of awe and discomfort. It was enough to make Stiles snap his head up and look at his best friend, momentarily ignoring Derek and the both literal and metaphorical mess he was in.

“What?” he said, “Are they different? Did they do something cool?”

Scott nodded, watching him closely. “They were weird, man. They’re back to normal now, but they were…yeah, weird,” he said, shrugging and rubbing at his head. “A cool weird though,” he added at Stiles’ disappointed sigh, “totally badass.”

“Yeah? Sweet. You’re not the only one with nifty peepers,” he said, grinning when Scott rolled his eyes. At least he had one cool side effect to his less-than-human status, and at least one of his friends wasn’t looking at him like he expect Stiles to rip throats out and oh god he needed to stop hanging out with Derek if that was his go-to threat.

“No one says peepers, Stiles. Even Derek isn’t old enough that saying peepers would be normal.”

“Oh my God, could you two focus for one minute? What the hell is going on?”

Stiles thought they both managed to look suitably chastised by Lydia’s voice. Then again, she was likely the most intimidating member of the pack, so he shouldn’t be surprised that Scott looked kind of like a kicked puppy. “Right. I need to explain stuff but I’m covered in stuff that let’s not dwell on, so I need to clean up first. And talk to my dad-“ he stopped, felt everything but the thrumming stop with him. “Oh God. My dad. How am I going to tell him I…shit. Shit shit shit.”

He felt his chest tighten, his breathing quicken. He was going to have to tell his dad he’d killed people. Killed eight creatures. Sure it had been self-defence but it was still murder, he’d still taken lives. And he’d used his powers, which he’d promised his parents he would never do. It felt like his whole world was shifting, the corners of his vision darkening, everything shifting to the fact that his dad was going to hate him now. He’d ruined everything, again.

“Stiles,” Scott said, voice firm and Stiles found himself blinking as he looked up at his best friends face. They were on the ground, and Stiles couldn’t remember getting here. He vaguely remembered Scott telling him to breathe but wow, it had been awhile since he’d had a panic attack. At least he’d had someone there to talk him down and hold him until he came out of it.

Hold him. Yelping he flailed backwards, putting as much distance as he could between himself and Scott.  “Don’t touch me! What if I’m still all grrr murdering time? Fuck, Scott, you’re an idiot.”

His best friend just rolled his eyes, grabbing him with one hand and tugging him to his feet. “I’ve been holding your shoulders for like five minutes. I think you’re done being all, y’know, whatever,” he said, nudging Stiles’ shoulder. “You okay?”

Stiles swallowed, nodding slightly before forcing himself to give Scott a small smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“No problem. Come on, we can use Derek’s shower. You are rank right now, and that’s not even using wolf powers.”

And that, right there, was why Scott was his best friend. He might ignore him, and obsess over his girlfriend, and sometimes be an oblivious douchenozzle, but whatever. At the end of the day, when it really mattered, he was right there, cracking jokes like Stiles hadn’t just single-handedly killed eight people-things.

Which he had, and that was still a thing, but later. Way later.

“Whatever, man,” he said, following Scott towards the house, carefully not looking at the pack. “You’re not exactly a spring flower yourself. Werewolf sweat is seriously stinky.”

Scott has his mouth open to retort when Derek stepped forward, shoulders still tense and claws still out. “We’re not done here.”

Nothing was ever as easy as Scott made it out to be, he should know that by now. “I know we’re not, Derek. Can you just let me clean up first?”

“Not until you explain yourself,” he said, and Stiles could easily imagine him growling.

Usually after a panic attack Stiles was eager to hide what had happened. He’d long since mastered the art of forcing his limbs taught, shoving hands in his pockets so no one would see the after effects. For once he decided to use the way his whole body shook afterwards to his advantage, raising a hand so Derek could see the way his hand was quaking.

“I’m about five seconds from another attack,” he said, knowing his racing heart would back that claim up. “Please just let me shower and call my dad. I’ll explain everything when he gets here.”

“Your dad knows?” Scott asked, pressing their shoulders together. “I thought you said this was new.”

Stiles shook his head, pressing back against Scott, trying to take comfort from the man who was pretty much family. “It’s a long story, but it’s…it’s got to do with my mom. It’s just the whole, it’s what happened tonight that’s new.”

“Oh,” Scott said, the pained look at the mention of Stiles’ mom mirrored in the way most of the pack shifted awkwardly, looking away.

“I’d never hurt any of you, though. You’ve got to know that by now,” he said, trying not to feel ashamed of the way his voice shook. He was on the brink of losing this, his pack, and he was more terrified now than they were first attacked. Death he could deal with, could control to some extent, but this was something else.

It was another long pause but eventually Derek nodded. He was still tense but he motioned towards the house, eyes fixed on the pair of them. “Don’t let him out of your sight, Scott.”

“That is both awkward and kinky and I don’t know how cool I am with voyeurism but sure, ok, I’ll let Scott enjoy a nice view of all of this,” he said, his jokes falling completely short in the awkward silence.

The walk up to the house was long, but Scott kept bumping into him, not once moving away. It was amazing how comforting that was, and Stiles kept repeating to himself that at least he’d still have Scott. They’d been friends forever, through thick and thin. They’d get through this, the two of them at the very least.

He dug his phone out of his pocket as they reached the house, fumbling to punch in his dad’s number. Scott moved around, digging out towels and soap, trying to give the illusion of privacy and Stiles wanted to praise him for his attempt at subtlety. Dude’s intuition was better than most people gave him credit for.

“Stiles,” his dad answered, voice relieved. “I was hoping for a distraction from this paperwork. What’re you up to?”

There was a moment of silence where Stiles contemplated lying. His dad was in a good mood and this would kill it. But Stiles needed his dad, needed him and for once he couldn’t pretend to be the adult. “I’m with the gang, at the Hale house.”

“What happened, son?” he asked, clearly picking up on the uneven tone of Stiles' voice.

“These…these things came out of the woods and my friends were in danger and I – I knew someone was going to die, dad. The way mom did, I just knew that people were going to die and it was going to be my friends and –“

“Take a breath,” he said, voice firm and strong. Stiles did as he was told, breathing in and out until his dad deemed him calm enough. “Is anyone hurt?"

"No, we're all fine. No one's hurt."

"Good. Did you do something?”

“Yeah, yes. I had to. Scott was going to – I had to.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Stiles hated that he’d put his dad in a position to ask that question, hated his answer more. “My friends all did. We were all fighting together. They…Scott’s the only one that still trusts me. Derek’s letting me calm down a bit, but he wants answers. I…can you come out here? I think they’ll take it better if there’s someone here they still trust telling it…”

“Sure, kid. I’ll be right out. Do you need anything?”

“Thanks. Thanks, yeah, could you pick up a change of clothes for Scott and me? And maybe bring food or something. Food soothes the savage beast, y’know? And Scott’s making puppy eyes at the phone and looking really pathetic and hungry.”

“I’m going to have to start charging Melissa for how much I feed that kid. I’ll be there soon,” he said, and Stiles felt something in his chest ease slightly. “It’ll be just fine, Stiles.”

“Okay,” he said, trying to believe him. “Bye, dad.”

He waited for his dad to respond in kind before hanging up and tossing his phone on the dining room table before motioning for Scott to lead the way to the bathroom. “Lead on, Toto.”

Stiles wasn’t hungry, at all. He felt sated, and following Scott down the hallway while his friend bitched about bad dog jokes, Stiles felt more afraid than he had all day. He’d crossed a line today, and he wasn’t sure there was any going back.


End file.
